Belonging to the Boss by Jenna Rose
Gracie
I wake up in the servants’quarters again but get the distinct sensation there’s someone standing over me watching me.
“All right, Pierre,” I grumble. “I know, he wants breakfast. I’m coming.”
“I do want breakfast,” Derick says. “But after I shower.”
My eyes snap open, and I rocket into a seated position to see Derick standing in the doorway, completely naked, soaking wet, his muscled body glistening, grinning at me with a towel in one hand and a massive, stiff cock standing straight out from between his legs like some kind of triumphant sculpture made by a modern day DaVinci in order to encapsulate total masculine perfection.
Unsure of what to do, I avert my eyes.
“I—Derick…”
Am I turned on? Yes. Beyond belief. Can I let him see that? Of course not. That would be beyond unprofessional. But then again, how professional is it to stand naked in front of the female employee you just hired?
“Why are you naked?”
“Just finished my swim,” he replies as though the answer was obvious.
“Right…”
Jesus, those abs…those deltoids…
“So I’m gonna shower, get the bleach off,” he says. “Why don’t you make me something for breakfast?”
“Eggs on toast?” I reply like a good little gopher who knows her place.
To my surprise, Derick shakes his head. “No. Surprise me.”
Before I can reply, he turns around and walks out of the room, giving me a perfect view of the nicest, firmest, most muscular, shining pair of glorious glutes I’ve ever seen.
You know, I don’t think men understand that we gals like butts too. And boy does Derick have a butt on him, and I shamelessly keep my eyes on it until he’s down the hall and out of sight. It’s only once he’s gone that I realize my entire body is tense, my heart is racing, my nipples are hard, and I’ve arched my back unintentionally as I’ve been sitting.
Is he just screwing with me?
After my complete screw-up last night, I was sure he was going to fire me. I went to bed thinking this would be my last night in the penthouse and that I’d not only not have this job, but that I’d continue to be blacklisted in New York City and would have to end up moving across the country just to try and find a job in the art world.
But now I wake up to find him standing over me, naked as a Greek god, telling me to go ahead and surprise him with something for breakfast?
Talk about mind-fuckery.
Now I’m imagining him…doing things…all kinds of things that a boss should never do to an employee…terrible things that have me needing a quick shower before I make my way to the kitchen, wearing the baggiest pair of sweatpants I can find, along with a nice big baggy sweatshirt.
The way I figure it, it’s like armor. If my nipples get hard, he won’t be able to see it. If I get…wet, he won’t be able to see that either. I’m not being full of myself by thinking he must be at least kind of attracted to me, right? Why else would he be showing off his perfect physique in front of me? But this way, he won’t be able to see mine, and that way things won’t get any more complicated than they already are.
Yeah, right…
There’s no denying the tension in the air between us. There’s no way this is all in my head. But if that’s the case, why hasn’t Derick, the ruthless billionaire businessman, made his move yet?
Why hasn’t he come and taken what he wants from me?
Held me down, stripped me bare, and claimed me as just another one of his many possessions?
It’s not like the thought hasn’t been invading my mind…
It must also be in his.
I can barely remember how to make my mom’s pancakes for him with all these fantasies running wild in my brain. I literally almost forget to add the eggs to the mixture and end up going to the sink and splashing cold water on my face in an attempt to shake myself out of my Derick-induced stupor. It sort of works. I’m able to get through the mixing and the cooking, but when he walks back into the kitchen, his hair slicked back and his skin shining from the shower, his arms about to bulge out of a tight salmon-colored polo, all that excitement comes rushing back again.
“So, Gracie, what’d you make me?”
“Hey, that almost rhymed,” I observe.
“I was going to be a rapper, but then I became a billionaire.” He smirks.
I grab a plate from the cupboard and plate two pancakes and find the syrup in the refrigerator as he takes a seat at the table.
“Gracie’s mom’s famous pancakes,” I say, like a contestant on Master Chef as I set them down in front of him. As I do, his scent sweeps into my nose like a drug, igniting my senses like gasoline being sprayed on a fire. Every nerve ending in my body comes alive like a thousand light bulbs.
Feeling my cheeks begin to blush, I spin on my heels and quickly go to the sink.
“You need a drink,” I say, providing myself with a reason for a quick retreat. I grab a glass and fill it with the almond milk I found in the fridge, taking as much time as I can to let the majority of my blush subside before going back over to him.
“Famous, huh?” he asks as I set the glass down in front of him. “Worldwide? Nationwide? Statewide?”
“Town wide. But they’re still good, right?”
Derick does this frustrating sort of so-so head bob thing from side to side that makes my stomach twist up, but I keep a straight face as he keeps eating.
“Listen, since you butchered that painting of mine, I need you to head down to the gallery and pick me out a new one today while I’m at the office, all right?”
It’s like having a needle placed in the small of my back. I instantly stiffen as I’m reminded of the colossal fail from yesterday.
“Pick something out for here? Yeah, sure. I can do that.”
“I hope you can.” He grins in a way that makes me melt and feel small at the same time. “You’re my assistant and want to work in the art world, right?”
“That’s right,” I say, straightening up.
He hands me a card. “Go here. Talk to Linda, she’s the owner. Pick out anything, no matter the cost. Just make sure it fits the décor, all right?”
“No-no matter the cost? Are you sure?”
Derick looks at me with a “seriously?” kind of smirk on his face, and I quickly stuff the card in my pocket.
“Right. Got it. No problem.”
“Good. Now, if you don’t mind?” He raises his hand and with three fingers, sort of shoos me away like I were a dog or something.
Infuriating.
That’s the best way to describe him. Infuriatingly handsome and infuriatingly arrogant. But God if my thighs aren’t slipping and sliding all over each other as I walk quickly back to my room to change into something appropriate for an art gallery.
I slip out of my armor of sweatpants and sweatshirt, and just as I’m stepping into a tasteful black dress, I hear a knock behind me.
“Oh!” I gasp, spinning around to find Derick standing in the door, his eyes fixed on me. “Derick!”
“Quick question,” he says slowly, scouring every inch of my body without shame. I scramble to cover up, even though I know a big part of me wants him to see me.
“Y-yes?”
“Are you a virgin, Gracie?”
His words hit me like a boxer’s punches. I stagger.
“Excuse me? What?”
“A virgin. Are you a virgin?”
Why is he asking me this? He shouldn’t be asking me this.
But I shouldn’t be turned on by the fact that he is either.
“I-yes, sir…”
My response just sort of slips out of my lips.
Did I really just call him sir?
His strong, muscular jaw sits firm and fixed, his eyes unwavering as he stares at me as though processing my response.
Did I say the wrong thing?
Slowly, I pull the straps up on my dress, giving myself a bit of cover. Then, slowly, almost indiscernibly, the corners of his lips twist up into the faintest of smiles, and he nods.
“I thought so.” And then he leaves.
It takes me a few seconds to regain the ability to speak. “Hey! Wait, what? Why did you ask me that?”
Tugging at my dress so it holds, I race into the hallway, but he’s already gone. And I’m not about to chase after him like a crazy woman either. So, my mind spinning like a tilt-a-whirl, I go back to my room and finish getting ready, then head to the car.
“Am I a virgin?” I say to myself under my breath as I take the elevator to the street. “What kind of a question…?”
Was it something he just wanted to know? Or something that I somehow made obvious by the way I have been acting? And if that’s so, why does it even matter to him? Does he find it funny? Pathetic?
Enticing…?
“Oh God, Gracie…” I mutter as I drive to the gallery. “This is getting complicated.”
Too complicated, and I haven’t even slept with him yet.
“Yet!” I blurt out. It’s pointless denying it. I absolutely, positively want to sleep with my boss.
No, not sleep with. More like get pinned down and be brutally dicked down by my boss. Be dominated and ruled by. Be made into his personal plaything. Trade myself for whatever painting he wants me to buy for him today and be the main source of aesthetic decoration for his penthouse.
Is that too much to ask?
I sigh heavily as I pull up in front of the gallery and give myself a minute before getting out. This is getting heavy. Sure, he’s stood naked in front of me and asked me if I’m a virgin, checked me out without shame, but does he actually like me? He could just be arrogant as hell and completely unabashed by doing those things. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s into me. He could just be a sick bastard who is having fun screwing with me. For all I know, he’s not at the office, he’s out with an Instagram model with 10-million subscribers right now while I do his work for him.
“You must be Gracie,” a tall, blond woman says when I enter the gallery. “I’m Linda. Derick told me to expect you.”
“That’s me.” I smile, feeling insanely out of place. I see two Picassos hanging on one wall and a Monet on another. “I’m here for a painting.”
“Did you have anything in mind?”
“I was thinking large, abstract, bold…” My voice trails off. It’s hard to concentrate on art right now with the thought of Derick with another woman in my mind. It’s probably just me being paranoid, but he hasn’t exactly given me much to go on. And what was that random virginity question before I left the house? Just to throw me off? Just to screw with me?
Well, Derick, two can play at that game.
“Linda, do you have any Rothkos?”
Linda’s eyes light up, and she nods. “We have two. One in blue and one in purple and orange. Which do you think would better suit—”
“The blue. I’ll take the blue.”
“Would you like to see it?”
I shake my head. “No. I know enough about Rothko. What’s the price?”
“Well, this particular Rothko is quite rare and is priced quite competitively at 70 million.”
I smile and nod. “Fine. No problem.”
Derick told me price was no object, but at the same time, I doubt he was anticipating three-quarters of a million being charged to him.
It takes the better part of the morning to get the payment and delivery sorted out, but by the end of it, Linda is practically glowing like the sun. Her commission on this sale will be enough for her to retire if she wants. I’m sitting on the couch sipping a mimosa just before dinner when Derick gets home. He notices the Rothko immediately.
“You picked that?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“And why, Gracie?”
“Well, Derick, you’re the kind of man who gets bored with things.”
“Am I?” he chuckles.
“So a piece with a lot of solid detail like a portrait or a landscape would be something you could easily grow accustomed to and grow bored with quickly,” I explain. “But an abstract, especially something with many layers like a Rothko, will be something that will continue to surprise you day after day. And the colors work perfectly here.”
He eyes me for a long moment, a moment almost too long to bear, until finally he simply nods.
“Fine.”
And then, once again, he simply leaves.
